The  Delivery
by theladyfro
Summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane knows a secret. The secret disgusts him and confuses him. Rather than let the chaos take hold, Crane decides on a plan, a plan which brings forth a very special delivery.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights for "Batman" including characters, movies, television shows, and comics. This work is purely for entertainment purposes.

**The Delivery**

Crane knew before she said anything. He could tell in the way she handled herself, he could tell in the way she moved. He could tell with her every movement and phrase and gesture. He laughed out loud when she told him the news, and felt a stab of guilt as he realized what he wanted to do about it. Crane had known she was pregnant before she even mentioned anything. He knew that he would have to do something about it as soon as he could.

It obviously wasn't his, and Crane could not bear to venture the one guess it took to realize what had happened. It was so obvious, so blatantly obvious, and it made him tense to think that Quinzel hadn't even bothered to shield the truth from him. But then again, Crane could read her like a book.

He had realized it three weeks before she'd decided to tell anyone. He'd waited with baited breath for those full three weeks, wondering if she even would tell anyone, or if she would hide it and take care of it.

She didn't take care of it, and her odd behaviors continued.

One night, late and dark, Crane heard a knock on his office door. He shoved his 'work' into his desk and grimaced. He could only guess that it would be her. Tensing, he cleared his throat. "Come in," he said quickly.

The door opened and there she was. Crane's eyes lowered to his desk. He didn't want to look at her, couldn't. She'd betrayed his trust in more ways than one and being with that clown was the last straw. He wanted to see her for what she was, a clown, a silly joke, but looking at her would ruin the mirage he had created in his head. Looking at her would just make him regretful and angry. It was her pale blue, sympathetic eyes that would do it. They were always gleaming and shining, always beautiful, always there.

"I'm pregnant," she stammered, folding her hands too much, and causing her dress to wrinkle.

Crane nodded. "I know."

Confusion clouded Quinzel's eyes. She shifted in her chair nervously. Crane could nearly see the thoughts going through her head. He could almost watch as she questioned how he could know something so personal. "How, how could you possibly know that?" Along with confusion, there was fear in her voice. Although she did have a reason to fear him, it was not the reason for his knowledge.

"Easy," Crane said. "I am a psychologist, I pay attention to visual cues." Crane tightened in his seat. "I've known for three weeks now." He desperately wanted to say something to her, something about how that clown of hers was a pig, and that she was stupid if she thought things would work out. He also wanted to ask her if _he_ knew. Crane thought for sure that would be _interesting_, in the least.

A moment of silence slipped through the air. The silence was long and drawn out, leaving Crane with his eyebrows furrowed. She looked so helpless and he hated her for it. He took advantage of helpless people, preyed upon them, tortured them. Quinzel had always been so sure and strong, and now she was one of them. She was one of those people he felt the need to torture. This was making her weak. He wanted to prey upon her, something he'd never wanted to do, and for some twisted reason, he realized that he thought she deserved it.

"Why the hell are you here, talking to me about this?" Crane asked, eyes narrowing. "Why don't you go talk to _daddy_ about it? Or doesn't he know? Regretting it? Do you think he'll see it as a big joke?" Crane knew he was being unreasonable and cruel. He didn't care.

Quinzel's eyes drooped, and her hands pressed themselves together in her lap. She heaved a sigh and gave Crane a pleading look. Crane looked away, refusing to look at her eyes.

She spoke, quickly, nervously. "I'm going to tell everyone it's yours."

Crane stood up, throwing his hands down on his desk. His brows were intense, angry. Why the fuck would she do that? Not that it made sense in the least. This was her problem, not his.

She was so weak, so weak. Preying upon her would be too easy.

"Get out of my office!" Crane's voice bellowed around the tiny room. Quinzel looked shocked, but stood, looking paler than usual and trembling.

She leaned on the front of his desk, a pleading look on her face. "Please," she begged, "please Jonathan, please…"

He shook his head. "Don't call me that."

Quinzel went to the door and almost slipped out. But it was like she couldn't. It was like she didn't want to, like she had something to prove to him. "I thought you were my friend? I thought… I…"

Crane reiterated his previous statement and shook his head, not looking her in the eye. "Don't call me that, either. I'm a colleague, Quinzel. Get out of my office."

She left then and, as Crane had assumed that she would, found ways that she wouldn't have to come in contact with him. She avoided him like a fairy avoided fire. It was as if she thought he would eat her up and burn her if she got too close. Crane liked to think that she thought those things, because, naturally, they were true.

* * *

><p>Three months went by without so much as a word forming between Quinzel and Crane. Crane was glad that she'd realized he wouldn't help her. However odd their situation was, it grew odder when Quinzel did exactly the thing she told Crane she would do.<p>

The first he heard of it was when another unexpected knock came to his office door. This knock, not being timid or scared, was loud and boisterous. Crane sighed, deciding to leave his work on his desk. It was actually qualified as 'real work' and was a file on a patient of his.

"Come in," Crane said flatly.

The door opened as quickly as the knocks had come, and then an angry-looking orderly was standing in the middle of his office. He held a large load of paper work in his arms and had a scowl on his face. Crane recognized the orderly as someone that took a great deal of notice in everyone. He was young, maybe twenty four, but he certainly appeared to have a lot of thoughts on how people working together should treat each other.

"I brought you some paperwork... It needs to be done, new procedure, you know…." The paper was slammed down on an empty corner of Crane's desk. After stepping back a bit, the orderly, Steven, his name was, crossed his arms over his chest. "Harleen told everyone today…."

"Told everyone what?" Crane knew what Steven was talking about. How could he not know? He'd been waiting months now for Quinzel to shoot him in the foot, and it seemed that she'd done it recently.

The orderly snorted and took a few steps forward again. "Told everyone the news, and with it what you did to her…. Honestly, Dr. Crane. I don't think I would expect anything less from you. Get a girl pregnant and then don't speak to her for months."

Crane's eyes furrowed, and his hands went up to flick through his hair. This was going to be a problem, and he was going to have to do something, anything about it, starting with this orderly. Crane stood, shrugging and went over to his tall bookshelf. Upon it were hundreds of books pertaining to his field of study. It was certainly obvious that the shelf wasn't screwed into the wall, and certainly obvious that a shelf that tall or heavy could topple over at any moment if someone leaned upon it the wrong way.

"It's no secret that the two of you have been trying to avoid each other, it's all over the charts. When one of you gets too close, the other one switches over to a different patient. I would just like to say Dr. Crane that I think you're pathetic."

Crane ignored him, or pretended to. The book shelf loomed over him and he leaned against it, pulling out a book as if needing it for research. He examined the book, poring over it quickly, silently. Crane glanced to the man. "Look," he said, straightening his glasses with one hand and taking care to whisper, "I don't know what she told you… But I'm afraid you've been misled…. I'm afraid that Dr. Quinzel hasn't been truthful with all of you. Yes she's pregnant, and yes, I've been avoiding her, but I'm afraid the idea that I caused that abomination is simply out of the question. She has you all fooled."

A quiet pause came. The orderly stepped closer to the shelf, and then Crane, hiding his smile, reached behind the bookshelf and gripped it tightly. He wiggled it, and found that it wouldn't move. Before the orderly looked up he wedged himself behind the shelf and began trying to force it over. It rocked back and forth quickly and with one final push it glided away from Crane and the wall.

Crane watched as the orderly looked up to find the shelf tumbling towards him. Books flew at him and before Steven could move away, the shelf was on top of him. In his eagerness to watch, Crane had forgotten himself, and found that his foot had been crushed by an edge of the furniture.

It would heal, though, in time. This orderly, however, wouldn't be that lucky. If he wasn't dead now, he'd be dead soon. Crane seriously doubted that anyone could live after having a bookshelf smash their skull.

Realizing the precious time for what it was, Crane hobbled away from the shelf and the disaster of his room. A lamp had fallen over and books were scattered everywhere. He went toward the door, still limping, and began to call for help.

"Please!" He said, his voice hoarse with the laughter he was trying to keep in, "Please! There's been an accident, someone help! Someone's hurt!"

Nurses came out of the woodwork, pouring and oozing out from hidden places. Crane motioned them toward his office. He watched as their faces changed color, going from red and overworked to pale and solemn. As one nurse stopped to examine his foot he pushed her away. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" Shouting, Crane ran a hand through his hair. The last thing he needed was to get held up by someone who wanted to get a cast on his foot. He'd be fine for a few days. Before then, he needed to get a few things done; he had someone he needed to pay a visit to.

* * *

><p>"WHY DID YOU DO THAT?" He screamed at her, bursting into her office like a strong brisk wind. He didn't want to hear any of her excuses and he certainly didn't want her to beg and plead to him. That would just make her weak in his eyes. Crane didn't want or need to imagine her any weaker than she already was. She was seething frailness. Crane could almost smell it, almost taste it in the air.<p>

The first word out of Quinzel's mouth was, "Please, please! Crane!"

She dropped into further weakness in his Crane's eyes. He _tsked _and stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him in one sweep of his willowy arm. The bang of wood, metal, and glass sounded in the room, making Quinzel flinch.

Crane strode over to her, giving her a grimace and looking her over. Her face looked different somehow. It was more sallow, but yet rounder at the same time. Her eyes were the same and shined through the tears that were forming.

Crane looked away from her eyes quickly, he didn't need to be mesmerized by them. "WHY DID YOU DO IT?" Crane bellowed again as he grabbed a hold of Quinzel's neck, trying to keep her still. "WHY? You have RUINED ME! RUINED ME! And you know what? You know what, Harley? Isn't that what _he_ calls you? Aren't you his little Harlequin? _You know what?_" As Crane finished his voice had subsided into a dangerous whisper, his face only inches away from hers. He raised his eyebrows at the other doctor, daring her to answer him.

Quinzel squirmed underneath his hold. She gasped through his hold on her neck. "Please, Jonathan! Please, please! The baby! I- I! You're strangling me!"

"Oh shut up, Quinzel! You can breathe just fine! Answer my question! Do you know what I was forced to do because of your little trick?" A moment of silence passed. Quinzel closed her eyes, and tears dripped down her face, stained black by her mascara. "DO YOU?"

"Please, Jonathan! Please!" She was pleading loudly, and Crane, worried that someone would hear her, squeezed her throat tighter.

Crane rolled his eyes and pushed Quinzel so that her back touched her office wall with a soft thump. "I guess I'll answer the question for you…. Well, you know the little accident that happened a few weeks ago? Surely, you do. Well that accident wasn't an accident at all. That poor little dead orderly got what he asked for. He started asking questions, and I didn't like it. So, I arranged for a bookshelf to be dropped on him. Here, I'll even make the point short and sweet for you…. Don't go meddling around, Quinzel. Don't do it. Because I don't like being the father of your FUCKING CHILD! I'm not, and I should not have to put up with the way people look at me when I walk down the halls. YOU'VE RUINED ME. You think people will take me seriously now? You think I'll get promoted? THE ANSWER TO THAT IS NO!"

Roughly, Crane let go of Quinzel and paced off to her desk. "I'm surprised you didn't just kill it. If you were smart you would have done it. Think of what a freak it will end up being, with _him_ as a father…. It's one fucking joke, if you ask me." With eyes scoping the work on Quinzel's desk, Crane snorted. "I swear, Quinzel. If you mess shit up again, I'm going to be forced to do something about it, and it won't be as harmless as killing an orderly…."

Crane left her office, feeling a burning jealousy inside of him. Why did he have a reason to be jealous? It wasn't like he loved her. It wasn't like there were any feelings there at all. But then again, Crane thought back to all of the ways she could hypnotize him with her baby blue eyes. He shook the thought off, angrily.

He needed to keep control of himself. Thinking about her eyes would certainly not help. He needed to remain serious and weather the next few months of solitude and wait. He would wait for her to slip up so that he could teach the clown a thing or two about chaos. The clown's Harlequin was going to be taught a lesson, and the tall, angry Scarecrow was looking forward to it.

* * *

><p>A quiet few months around the asylum passed. Crane stood silently by, working, waiting, watching. He saw everything in the asylum; he was the only one who really paid attention. He was the only one who noticed that a nurse from the medical building made far too many trips to the petitionary to have sex with a guard that worked that area of the island. He noticed the way the doctors started treating Quinzel like she was delicate flower. Crane noticed everything, and everyone, and no one noticed Crane. It was as if he had slipped into the shadows and did his job while everyone looked the other way.<p>

Quinzel's slip up came one afternoon, or more, Crane noticed it one particular fall afternoon. He was looking over the charts, grimacing to himself that he had been told to check the prescriptions of all of the patients to make sure they were being given the correct drugs.

Things had been going routinely enough until Crane came to Quinzel's clown. He was supposed to be on a cocktail of expensive drugs, designed to mellow him out and make him appear saner. He checked over the chart and the sign offs, but found no receipts from the ordering of the specific drugs he was supposed to be on. Crane knew for a fact that they didn't have those types of drugs lying around. They were serious, and could do a lot of damage if given in the wrong dosage or to the wrong person.

Crane knew something was awry. He knew Quinzel knew the way things ran. This was not a slip up. No, this was a deliberate side stepping of the rules, and Crane was going to punish her for it.

He had been waiting months for something of this caliber to happen, and now that it had he was going to jump on it like a big cat attacking its prey. This was the last straw and Crane was going to take it for all it was worth. He was going to take her, and he was going to break her.

In the months that Crane had been waiting, he had watched as Quinzel's stomach began bellowing out, bulging with the tumor that was held inside her. It was his distaste of this detail that had helped him decide what he was going to do. It would be easy. All he had to do was get her.

* * *

><p>Crane waited until a Friday night. It was late and many of the staff liked to go home early on Friday nights. Crane was an exception to this rule, as was Quinzel. Silently, Crane slipped into Quinzel's office while she was out checking on a patient.<p>

He sat down at her desk and folded his hands over the gleaming surface. She knew how to keep things clean, that much was for certain, and he would give her that. She always was a clean one, always spick and span. He liked that about her, or had, once upon a time. Now it just served as an annoyance, like she was bragging to him, showing him her perfect ways.

It was almost twenty minutes before Quinzel came in. As she entered the room she held a chart in her arms and was humming quietly to herself. Crane cleared his throat. Quinzel let out a tiny sigh of surprise and dropped the chart on the ground. She gave Crane a dirty look as she walked to her desk.

"How long have you had that growth now?" Crane asked, smartly pushing up his glasses and swiveling in her chair. "Six, seven months…eight?"

Quinzel narrowed her eyes. "What do you want, Crane?"

"Simply to say 'hello'," Crane lied between his teeth, but smiled quickly. If he was charming enough she would never suspect a thing. It would be only too soon before he could get his hands around her neck again.

"The last time you were in my office you nearly strangled me…. Why the hell should I trust you?"

Crane laughed. "Oh," he said, "you've gotten feisty, I see…. Interesting…. You know, I believe I could write an extended paper on you, Quinzel."

The room was quiet for a moment and Crane watched as Quinzel got down on the floor slowly to pick up the chart she had dropped. Rather than offering to help, Crane examined her, remembering the procedures he had learned in basic med school and what he'd read recently.

"What do you want, Crane? If you don't want anything, please, leave my office, I want to go home." Quinzel's voice was sure and solid. It was something that Crane hadn't quite expected. He had expected his presence to disturb and worry her. It seemed to provide the opposite effect.

Crane considered his options. He could play along with her and her simple-minded whining about wanting to return home, or he could take control and use it against her. Although he liked to be deceitful, Crane also liked to tell people that he was in charge. He decided on an approach and remained silent for a moment, trying to decide on the perfect words.

"I'm afraid I can't do that…." Crane's words were soft yet burning. "You see, I was charged with going over the medication charts, and when I got to your little boyfriend's, I found something odd. I found a description of all of the medications he should be taking, and strangely enough there were no receipts of transfer for those meds. I know we don't have them in the facility…. So, isn't it curious that it seems he hasn't been taking them? Isn't it curious that it seems that his mood swings have a reason behind them now?"

The look that Quinzel gave Crane was the look he'd been waiting for. It was a look that told him he was right. It was a look that told him he'd won. Crane knew his prize; he just had to step up and get it.

Crane stood up from the other doctor's desk. Quinzel, obviously sensing what would soon happen backed toward the door. When she reached it, she turned, exposing her back. Sweeping upon her like a bird of prey, Crane grabbed Quinzel. "Preying upon you is too easy, you know that?" Crane wheeled the woman around, wrapping his fingers around her neck. "Now, you're going to listen to me, you hear me? I don't care who you know, I don't care who your boyfriend is. I told you if you meddled again, I would have to do something about it. That's what this is."

"You don't have a right to do that!" Quinzel shouted between panicked gasps and squirming. "You don't have a right to do this to me! Please, Jonathan! Please!"

Crane laughed at her and pushed her harder into the door. "I have the right to do whatever I want! Don't tell me how things work, Quinzel! It isn't flattering…. Now listen! I am going to take you away from the asylum. If you even so much as think of escaping me, things will not be good. I don't care about that fetus inside of you, and I don't care who you think you are! You will come willingly with me, or I will tell everyone the truth…about everything."

Letting go of Quinzel, Crane pressed a hand to the door, insuring she couldn't get out. She stared at him with big blue eyes, pleading with silent tears. She didn't know what he was doing, but she knew it wasn't going to be good.

"Get your keys and your paperwork, and let's go…."

Harleen fluttered around her room nervously. As she collected up her things, Crane looked through her desk drawers. He didn't find anything too exciting until he came across a newspaper clipping from the Gotham times that detailed a banquet event that was held in honor of the asylum. It had been the asylum's fifty year anniversary as a top medical facility. A few pictures went across the page. One was of Quinzel and a man that Crane almost didn't recognize. The man was tall, lanky, and lean, with a crop of dark hair and glasses that needed pushing up. He wore a suit in light of the occasion and still had an ambitious gleam to him. The young man in the photo was Crane.

It had been taken six years ago, just after Crane and Quinzel had been brought on board as certified staff members, and had been accepted by the board. It was before everything got weird: before the clown came to Arkham, before Harley, before Crane realized that his job would not take him everywhere he wanted it to.

Crane wondered why this clipping, of all things, was in Quinzel's desk. What did it mean? Crane shook his head, thinking. Women were always so sentimental, so weak in their emotions.

Thoughts drifted in Crane's mind, and he realized that his plan was going to change. He was not going to make Quinzel leave the hospital. No, what he was going to do to her would be worse than that. It would be risky hiding the fact that Quinzel was his prisoner with all of the people around, but as the asylum went into sleep for the Friday night, the medical building would clear out more than it already was. Things would be easy after that.

"On second thought, don't collect your things, keep them out. We aren't leaving just yet."

* * *

><p>He waited. He waited until ever last other worker in the medical building was gone. There were a few night nurses, but they were mostly up on the first floor. They wouldn't be a problem in the least, not where they were going. They were headed down to the basement, home of Quinzel's first office in the asylum, and a few other rooms that would be just what the doctor ordered.<p>

Crane wanted everything to be a surprise, so before they left the room, he tied a blindfold around Quinzel's eyes. He pushed her to their destination in an easily found wheelchair.

Once they were inside the elevator, Quinzel spoke, placing a hand over her swollen stomach. "Why are we going downstairs?" Her voice was so sure of itself, and Crane couldn't help but anticipate what she would say when they reached the room he had in mind.

"You'll see."

The elevator opened slowly. Crane noted that the lights had all been switched off. He didn't mind, and knew his way well enough to get around in the minimal light. Gently, he pushed Quinzel on, breath baited.

Finally they reached the room.

Crane threw open the doors, making Quinzel jump, and shoved the wheelchair inside. He locked the doors behind them and flipped on a series of overhead lights. Their florescent burn came on suddenly, giving Crane a headache. The buzzing lights were loud in the spacious area.

"Here we are. Only a few minutes and I'll take the blindfold off." Crane was honestly surprised that Quinzel had been defeated so easily. He couldn't believe how easily she'd slipped into the wheel chair or allowed the blind fold to be pulled across her face. Crane had assumed that she would put up a fight, but perhaps she was getting smart. Perhaps now, she was coming to realize that there was nothing she could do to change Crane's mind.

Crane set up his work area. Sharp objects and tools were removed from the cupboards along with other various items enclosed in glass bottles and containers. Quietly, he placed the tools on the tables of the room, taking care not to let the sounds of the objects give away what they were. The nature of the tables suggested that restraining Quinzel would be difficult, but a few moments yielded an idea to his mind. If anything he would just have to handcuff her.

Inside a cabinet he found the standard safety kit. Due to the fact that dangerous criminals had a tendency of being housed at Arkham, a safety kit was to be present in each room. They contained things like painkillers, bandages, water, canned foods, and handcuffs. Each of the kits was locked by a universal key that every staff member was given to put on their key chains.

He found two pairs of handcuffs and decided that they would work well enough. The tables were housed on a skeleton of long thin legs with a shelf near the floor for storage and pipes for proper drainage. Crane quickly snapped one end of each of the handcuffs to legs on the table, leaving the other ends not yet snapped shut.

Crane figured that confining the movement of Quinzel's arms would be enough for her not to flail. Her predicament would, after all, serve as a deterrent against movement as well.

Silently, Crane went to Quinzel and put a falsely comforting hand on her shoulder. "Okay," he spoke, softly, "let's get that blindfold off…." Crane's fingers fitted themselves around the blindfold and he untied it easily. After a moment Quinzel was squinting in the bright light.

Crane watched as a shiver went down her spine. "We're in the morgue." Her statement sounded like a death sentence.

"Yes. Now, stand up!" Crane firmly grabbed at Quinzel's arms, pulling her up, but taking care not to hurt her. He didn't need her to be dulled with other pain before the big show, no, that would just be cruel.

Quinzel struggled against him, but his firm grip won out and she was forced along by the man that had once been called her friend. He was no longer a friend. Now he was like the angel of death, leading her on to her inevitable fate. "Please, Crane!" Quinzel started, trying to peer into cold eyes. "Please, don't do this! I need to live, don't do this to me….!"

Crane laughed, long and hard as he brought his victim to the table he had set up. "I never said anything about killing _you_, Quinzel…. In fact, I think I'm doing you a favor…. Don't worry your pretty little head, I intend for you to live through this ordeal. Teaching you a lesson wouldn't be much good if you died during it, would it?" Another laugh tumbled from Crane's lips and he shook his head.

The table sat before them, shiny and clean, unwelcoming, and cold. Quinzel had the eyes of a lunatic. They were big and blue as always, but scared and unsure. They were like horses' eyes, wild and timid, but all the same it looked as if she was preparing for battle. Clearly, she didn't believe him when he said he wouldn't kill her.

He hadn't been lying. He wasn't going to kill her.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? JONATHAN, PLEASE!" Her voice was broken and loud, pleading, like an animal's. She struggled against him but he pulled her forward and pressed a hand to her throat, taking hold for better control.

He turned her and pushed her backside against the edge of the table. "I'll TELL you why I'm doing this, but first you just need to calm down, okay? Just be calm, Quinzel. Calm! Got it?"

A pause went through the air. Tears dripped down Quinzel's face, showing her apparent defeat. She folded her eyebrows together, glaring. "You don't have the right to do this…." Came her defiant statement.

"Shut up!" Crane tightened his hands around her neck. He squeezed for a moment, and watched as Quinzel's face grew red and worried. He let go. "I DO have the right to do this! And I'm going to explain it to you, apparently you aren't smart enough to figure it out…. Now, lay down! Do it slowly. And I mean it when I say this, Quinzel. If you try any shit, I will kill you, alright? And I know how to make it look like an accident, but we've already established that, haven't we?"

Quinzel's eyes looked around the room. She panicked silently, trying to figure out what to do. But it was useless. Crane had her just where he wanted her.

Slowly, Quinzel perched herself on the table. It was cold through the fabric of her dress and made her shiver. He was laying her down on an autopsy table, yet he said he wasn't going to kill her. It didn't make sense.

Crane watched silently as Quinzel sat down and then lowered herself into a sleeping position. "Nice and easy." Crane whispered. When she was settled, he pushed a hand to her shoulder. "On your back."

She rolled over with little fight and Crane nodded, taking her right hand in his. Cuffing her was easy enough; she didn't struggle or try to get away. She simply lay there, as if accepting her unknown fate.

"Why?" She asked, tears still streaming.

Crane moved away from the table, satisfied that she couldn't get away, and went to a sink at the edge of the room. Warm water was switched on. The doctor washed his hands quickly, thoroughly. "Why. You ask that like you know what I am going to do…. But I suppose explanation is in order…." When his hands were dry he decided to go without gloves and grabbed up a pair of medical scissors.

The scissors gleamed in the light and Crane stopped to appreciate their simplistic nature for a moment. In the moment he thought about what he was going to do and about how excited he was to be doing it this way. This was the way it should be, and anyone who thought different would have to answer to him.

It wasn't until Crane grabbed at the bottom of Quinzel's dress with the scissors in his opposite hand, that Quinzel started kicking her legs. She frowned deeply and nearly tossed one of her shoes off of her foot at him. Seeing the problem, he took her shoes and threw them across the room, smashing a large jar of formaldehyde in the process.

He stepped back toward her. "This can be done the easy way or the hard way, Quinzel! The easy way, you let me go about my business, the hard way, I go about my business but cut your leg in the process. STOP MOVING."

Crane's snarl scared Quinzel into immobility. She eyed him suspiciously but remained still. "Don't, don't…. Please, what do you want with me? What do you _want_ me for?"

Snorting again, Crane gripped the material of the dress and began to cut, little by little. "Certainly not _that_, if that's what you're thinking. You're already ruined to me, why would I _want_ you, especially in this _condition_?"

Shaking his head, Crane continued to cut. Eventually, he reached the neckline of the dress, finishing one large slit. Quietly, he went about cutting another one on the other side. When he finished with that, he dismantled the sleeves and pulled the dress away from his victim.

Quinzel, looking more like a patient now, laid out before him on the table, shivering and shaking from the cold of the room. She was as pale on her usually unseen bits of skin as she was on her face. Her legs were a bit thicker than Crane had expected they'd be, but he hadn't actually examined them since the incident, and attributed the change to her condition.

Crane eyed her stomach with a hatred burning inside of him. Her pale skin was stretched tightly across her form and looked like it would tear away from the muscle at the tiniest cut. He wondered if he'd vastly underestimated the length of her pregnancy. Her clothing choices had been good at concealing the fact for a while, and perhaps had altered his thoughts on the matter. Crane re-estimated her at somewhere near 33 weeks, but had no specific training in the field so felt uneasy at his estimation.

From his judgments, Crane reasoned that the child would be able to live if it was brought into the world at this particular stage.

"Crane!" She couldn't even say his first name as she lied there in nothing but her underwear.

Crane met her still ever-pleading eyes. "What?"

"Why?" She wouldn't even ask what he was doing. Why seemed to be the most appropriate question.

Silence.

Crane grabbed a bottle of antibacterial spread from the top of another table. He shook the liquid in the bottle. With slow steps he came back to the table where his colleague was draped out like sheet across the table. "Don't worry. Your other clothes will come off too. Don't want to stain them, do we?" Crane's voice was apathetic and cold. Quickly, without much thought, Crane pulled off Quinzel's undergarments, unfastening and yanking them so that she was totally exposed to him.

The antibacterial liquid was opened with the crack of a seal and the smell of rubbing alcohol. Crane poured it over Quinzel's torso. When it was sufficiently drenched, he began to speak.

"I do not appreciate what you've done." He was trying to control his anger, to bottle it until it would sufficiently help him explain. "I do not appreciate what lies you've told, Quinzel. I do not appreciate being the father of your child! But, but…. Because that's what you've told everyone, perhaps I have certain…_rights_. If I am the so called father, half creator of that abomination, then I feel I have some sort of control over what goes on. It's half mine, isn't it?" Crane's voice took a patronizing turn. He ever so enjoyed using Quinzel's words against her, and enjoyed the silently terrified look on her face.

"If it is, as we say, half mine, then I deserve to do whatever the fuck I want! I didn't ask for this responsibility. And _Harley_, oh, you're going to wish you never told anyone. If you were smart you would have kept your mouth SHUT."

Crane grabbed up a scalpel in his hand. He held it like an expert surgeon. Just because he rarely performed surgeries didn't mean he wasn't good at it or couldn't perform them. He enjoyed them and was developing plans to do a lot more of them in the privacy of the morgue.

Quinzel visibly stiffened, her tears once again flowing. They dampened her face and clogged her nose with mucus.

"Can't you tell, Quinzel? I would be an excellent father!" Crane's sarcastic tone echoed through the morgue, almost loud enough to wake the dead that were slumbering there.

Quinzel's eyes told her story. The showed that she was scared and threatened by the man holding the knife only feet away from her. "You're insane!" she blurted, trying to stifle her sobs.

"NO!" Crane screamed. "YOU'RE INSANE. For sleeping with him! For fucking that CLOWN. FOR LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO YOU! I'm not the crazy one here, Quinzel! You are! SO just SHUT UP! You are getting what YOU deserve! YOU ARE GETTING WHAT HE DESERVES TOO. And to be honest, Quinzel, you fucking deserve each other, and you deserve to witness this together, but since I own the other half of this child, not him, I think it fair that I exclude him in this little…Event. I think it fair that he learn what is going to transpire here today from you, yourself, as you GROVEL BACK TO HIM LATER." Crane pointed the blade at Quinzel and then took a deep breath. He collected his thoughts before he went on, still screaming. "To be truthful, Quinzel, I want you to have to tell him what I've done to you! I want you to tell him how I disrobed you and humiliated you! And took whatever humanity you had left! I want YOU to have to tell HIM WHAT I TOOK FROM YOU. I want you to tell him how I hurt you! And I want you to have to paint a smile on your face because you'll never be able to really smile, ever again!"

Quinzel's tears were flowing faster than Crane had ever seen them fall. Her body shuttered, her hands, cuffed, gripped into fits. "Leave me alone!" she said, her voice failing her and falling into an unexpected squeak. "Leave me ALONE!"

Crane watched as she blubbered and dabbed at the sanitized dome of her belly with a cloth. He pulled a marker from his work bag and uncapped it. Calmly, he pressed a firm hand to one of Quinzel's legs, the other hand holding the marker.

"Hrm," Crane said, genuinely perplexed. He'd read up on the procedure but didn't know which way would be more effective. They were both difficult in their own ways and both had their pros and cons. One would most definitely leave a scar. "To leave a scar, or not to leave a scar." He thought on it and watched as Quinzel stopped crying for a moment. It was becoming clear to her. He smiled; she never was very bright.

Crane decided against the one that would leave a significant scar. He wanted the scars to be emotional, not physical, and besides that he wanted to perform the more complicated procedure.

Quickly, Crane drew a horizontal dashed line just underneath the swell of Quinzel's stomach. After he drew the line he double checked it by reaching across her and fingering the outer tips of her pelvic bone. Nodding to himself, he looked to Quinzel.

"I should put in a catheter…but…." As he spoke he let his eyes drift to Quinzel's. He sneered at her and shrugged his shoulders. He was still angry, but the scientist part of him was taking over and enjoying what he was about to do. "I also should medicate you, spinal block, epidural, but do you think I really want to do that.… No, and of course, I am not quite qualified to do that, am I? Hrm, I guess we'll just have to go without."

The scalpel was picked back up again, held loosely like an instrument of precision. Crane smiled.

Quinzel opened her mouth, pleading helplessly. "Please, please, don't…don't…don't, Jonathan, please. He isn't ready yet, please…."

Crane was about to laugh at her when he froze. Gently, he placed the blade back on the table and stared at his patient, his eyebrows raised. "_He_? Ahhhh so you and the clown, or you and I, depending on who you ask, are having a boy…. I've always wanted a little bastard to call my own, Quinzel."

"SHUT UP, JONATHAN!"

Crane's grip on the scalpel tightened as he picked it back up, and he cocked his head to the side, eyeing Quinzel venomously. "You know, _Harley_, I wouldn't be shouting orders if I was you. I'm the one with the scalpel and the one with an _actual_ medical degree, should anything _arise._"

If Crane had wanted to he could have gotten the surgical blades the actual surgeons in the asylum used. He could have the ones that cauterized the wound after each cut to prevent bleeding. He could have, but he didn't want to. He wanted to make her bleed. Even if she wasn't bleeding to death there would be enough blood on the table to scare her. He wanted to make her squirm under the fear that she was dying; he wanted to see the fear in her eyes, to feel it sweep around the room in great swells like waves of black on a cold ocean.

Crane made the first cut, and with the first cut came blood along with sickeningly yellow globules of fat and a trembling scream from Quinzel's lips. The blood leaked out of the wound like minutemen heading toward a warzone, fast and true. It was luminous almost, in the bright light, and a deep ruby color that made Crane's insides twist. Already it looked bad.

He thought back to his readings. She wouldn't bleed to death, not if he stitched her up the right away. If she died all he would have to do would be to make it look like an accident, an emergency. She would not die though, not unless he wanted her to.

"You know what, Quinzel? You're fucking lucky! You're fucking lucky I couldn't get my hands on any Pitocin, because if I had, things would be a lot worse for you right now…. You see, my plan, my plan was to make you reject that thing like the tumor it is and you would have had to suffer through hours of agonizing labor. Then you would have been beating yourself up over it. But I couldn't get any drugs, to your luck, instead I get to extract it. And we'll see what happens after that…." Crane stifled a laugh and checked the incision in Quinzel's skin.

He'd only cut through the skin and fat layer, next he would need to cut through a thin layer of ligaments. The next cut went quickly, as the tissue was clipped away with a different pair of surgical scissors. A tiny snip was made between muscles and underneath Quinzel's bladder before Crane realized he was elbows deep in blood. It kept coming and he had no intention of stopping it, save for mopping some out of the way so he could see what he was doing.

After dodging the bladder, Crane glanced up at Quinzel to find her staring up at the ceiling, a panicked look on her face. Her face had grown paler than usual and had sweat dripping down it. Quinzel's eyebrows were knitted together furiously. She felt Crane's gaze upon her and shifted her eyes to look at him. She looked as if she would be sick and swallowed feebly.

Her hands lay up above her head on the table, no longer clenched, but limp against her blood loss. By the time he'd reached the wall of her uterus, Quinzel couldn't bear to scream anymore and simply whimpered in pain as Crane pushed his hands into the gash on her body.

Splatters of blood were flecked across Crane's face and smeared on his glasses. He peered curiously into the opening he'd made and readied the scalpel for the last cut into Quinzel's womb. The scalpel sliced and cut its way easily and when the cut had been made Crane grinned to himself. "I should have been a surgeon, Quinzel."

Weakly, Quinzel bit her lip and gritted her teeth together. "You shouldn't be anything, Crane! You should be locked up! You sick minded freak! YOU SICK BASTARD!"

"I'd shut up if I were you!" Crane warned her menacingly. "Unless you want to break my concentration and have this surgical steel slip into the cranium of _our_ son." A neat, polite smile pressed itself to Crane's face. He enjoyed wearing it there, in that moment. He loved how it showed in the reflection of Quinzel's eyes, and how he could see the pain and panic on her face.

The blade was discarded. "Ahhh, now let's see." With little mercy, Crane shoved his hands into the gap in her uterine wall. He could see the fetus and knew it would be easy enough to pull it out. Roughly he tightened his hands around the child's neck and pulled. The head came out first, the body following closely behind.

Quinzel couldn't look away and found that she was watching as Crane extracted her child. Her tears were back along with a nervous expression. "Get your hands off of my son!"

Crane laughed, still holding the creature by the neck. The umbilical cord was still attached and he grabbed the scalpel quickly. He'd read about how to do that as well, and knotted the cord before clipping it easily.

The baby was heavy, heavier than he would have expected, and looked generally healthy considering it was early. Crane disregarded the fact that he would get blood all over himself, and cradled the child in his arms, frowning intensely at it.

Quinzel, in her weakness, let out a loud sigh and stifled more tears.

The baby, obviously a male as had been predicted, started crying, his mouth open and gaping with ugly toothless gums and a large pink tongue. Its hands were red and clawed aimlessly at the air. Crane grimaced and held the boy up. "Ahhh yes, a boy indeed…. Shame…Such a shame…."

Quinzel froze, her eyes growing large and scared. "What, Crane? What are you going to do…?" Her voice had a worried tone and Crane smiled at her.

"Something that should have been done a long time ago."

"NO!" Quinzel squeaked. Her hands were clenched again, her face red from the tears pressing upon it. "Don't! He's mine, don't! Please! Jonathan! Why don't you have a heart?"

Crane laughed. As his laughter left his mouth and echoed around the room, he carried the child over to one of the other cold examination tables. With scraps from Quinzel's destroyed dress, Crane wrapped the child hastily and left it on the table, crying and cold.

"Why don't YOU have a heart, Quinzel? You went along with him, not thinking about anyone else but yourself! You're pathetic! You're a pathetic whore, and a bitch who couldn't keep her fucking pants on and ended up with a bastard son! WHICH YOU THEN BLAMED ON ME. Why did you not have enough of a heart to not do that?"

As he spoke, Crane readied the stitching he was going to use to patch her up. He should have been using surgical staples but couldn't get his hands on those either. He readied his needle and 'thread' and began.

Quinzel looked defiantly at Crane, her eyes burning with obvious hatred and a heated vendetta against the man before her. "No, Crane! You're pathetic! Look at you! Look what you've done! You're, you're so…so JEALOUS that you had to do this! Look at what you've done to me! AND NOW LOOK AT WHAT YOU'RE CONSIDERING."

"SHUT UP!" Crane's growl frightened the child across the room into further tears and made Quinzel's lip tremble. "I'm not _considering_ it."

Crane stitched Quinzel up in silence. When he finished his hands were more than covered in blood and his shirt was dripping wet with a variety of different liquids. He'd slicked his hair back away from his face so much in the past minutes that there was a deep red streak where the blood was beginning to soak into it.

After he finished, Quinzel was still attached to the table, blubbering like the fool that she was. "You're so weak!" He screamed at her, taking the infant in his arms again as he did.

Her response was not recognizable as words, but simply a screech of anguish and hatred joined together by meaningless syllables.

Crane had thought long and hard about how he would want to kill it. He'd pondered if violence was the answer, or if it should be a slower method of death. He'd thought about the comparison between brutal force or quiet thieving of life. Nothing had seemed right so he'd rejected making a decision. He was forced into the situation blindly, with no plan, and now was stuck mulling it over silently.

The baby was warm and suddenly quiet in his arms. Quinzel watched Crane like a hawk, eyeing his every move, trying to discern if Crane would actually do the things he said he was going to.

The baby's eyes drifted around. They didn't so much look at anything in particular, as they looked at everything all at once. Its eyes, as with tradition, were light blue, though Crane, even in his blind rage over the entire situation, could see that its eyes were the same color as Quinzel's.

He stared at the baby's eyes, hating it. But somehow, deep within his anger, Crane found a calm. The infant, although wet and ugly, had quieted itself in Crane's arms and had fitted a tiny hand around one of his fingers. Crane stared at it, and for a moment, he almost thought it was staring back at him.

It was then that a sick thought flooded his mind. It was a thought that on any normal day would make him tremble and reject his mind. It was a thought that was so obviously wrong, so obviously monstrous and obscene.

Crane recognized the thought as being awful, but yet, in his desperation, still had the thought.

He knew what was going to become of that night; he knew what had to become of that night, but for a moment, just a simple second he had a thought, a sick thought of grandeur.

The child closed its eyes. Crane eyed it and found no resemblance of the clown in its face, or at least none that he could tell.

For just a moment, a tiny wrinkle on the surface of time, Crane thought of the possibilities. He thought of what things could have been for him, could have been for _them_. But that was why he was doing it in the first place, wasn't it? He was doing it because those desperate possibilities, the desperate ideas that he'd always had about Quinzel, had been washed down the drain.

He'd wanted her, always had, not as an object, not like the clown did, but as a person, as an intellectual. When they'd met, Crane had known that she would keep him on his toes, and she did, for a short time, she did. For a short time when he looked at her she looked back with thankful, blue, happy eyes that told him to keep trying. But then the clown came and everything had changed. Quinzel stopped looking at Crane like she had, and it made him sick with anger and envy. It made him sick enough to change completely.

He wasn't the same man he had been all of those years ago, and he would never be that man again.

The thing in his arms let out a tired sigh and opened its mouth, as if in hunger. Crane shook his head. It would not have its first meal now, and not ever.

Crane thought of all of the possibilities if everything had gone differently. Despite his tortured childhood back before envy took its hold, Crane had not thought himself to be a bad caretaker. If everything had gone according to plan he could have been holding his own child in his arms.

It would have been his and Quinzel's, and no one else's. It would have been lovely and calming and exciting and scary. But none of that had happened at all. He was not holding his child, but the child of his enemy, and a child that was proof of what went on when Crane himself wasn't watching.

A pang of longing hit Crane, and he stumbled forward thinking about it. It was a longing, a longing to take care of someone, to have purpose in his life, to love something else but himself, to protect something sacred, to cherish.

He held the child close, inspecting it, scrutinizing it.

Crane exhaled and then inhaled. He could smell the blood drying from the examination table, and smell the myriad of smells that came with surgery and childbirth.

All of his thoughts bombarded him. He was losing his focus, losing whatever part of himself had wanted to do this in the first place. Focus was the most important thing. He could not back down now, not simply give in. He had not come all of this way to simply let things go.

He reminded himself of three simple points in his head. They were factual and correct. Number one, the child in his arms was not his. Number two, Quinzel did not care about him in the least, and never would. Number three, if he didn't do exactly what he said he was going to, he would be weak, weak like her, weak like Quinzel.

The calm, cool words of logic set about a sense of serenity in Crane's mind. The ending of the story grew clear in his mind.

His rage began again. He was right. Of course, he was always right, he just sometimes had to convince himself of it. The child that he held was not his, was not even anything remotely associated with him. It was Quinzel's, sure, but that didn't matter to him when she had caused him so much suffering, so much anguish, so much hate.

Crane wondered how to do it. Silently, he approached Quinzel as she laid naked in puddles of her own blood. She was still cuffed and wouldn't actually be able to hold the bastard, but he would be able to at least present it to her while he readied the final part of his plan.

He went to her, showing her the child. She smiled through tears and strained against her restraints. It was obvious she wanted to hold it, but Crane wouldn't allow it. It was too risky. Instead of un-cuffing her, he placed the baby on her chest. It would be safe there, and close to her.

Quinzel's voice was quiet and relieved, as if she thought that Crane had experience a change of heart. If of course wasn't true, but Crane didn't want Quinzel to know that just yet. "Thank, Crane, thank you…. I just…you scared me…."

Crane turned away and went to the counter on the edge of the room. Sitting, unused was a large jar, it would obviously be big enough. "I should have…." Crane mumbled under his breath. He got down quickly on all fours to look inside of a cabinet and found what he'd been searching.

Crane purposely put his surprise together behind Quinzel, so she couldn't see him. He uncapped the bottle and began pouring it in to the jar. He filled it half up before the smell of formaldehyde filled the room and made Crane cough. Truthfully he'd never liked the smell and it had been one of the deciding factors against him merely being a medical examiner.

He was sure that Quinzel could smell the stench. She grew quiet from where she was, no longer taking the moments to speak softly and gently to her child.

Crane nodded his head. It was time to begin. Laughing under his breath, realizing the moment's full potential, Crane turned to Quinzel. "Give him a name," he said. His voice was demanding but calm at the same time. It was not a voice that by itself would cause worry, but when mixed with the situation, had the potential to make Quinzel stiffen.

"Why…?" came Quinzel's response.

"Everyone needs a name, Quinzel."

"No, I can't, not yet…. I need time to think…."

Crane shrugged it off, placing a label on the jar. "Suit yourself."

Crane could tell he was deceiving her, and he loved it. He watched her nod from the corner of his eye and then took out his previously used marker. Under his hands the jar had a large bloody handprint. Not that it mattered, he wasn't going to get caught anyway. All of the evidence he created wouldn't mean shit.

With the marker he wrote on the label. He wrote one word, and didn't quite know why he was writing it. Whatever it meant, it felt right. When he was finished, he capped the marker and waltzed over to Quinzel, grinning. It was a polite grin, a grin to put her at ease. Like a fox, Crane slinked over, holding his hands out. "Let me see, how's the knot holding up?" Crane lied. He knew that the knot he tied on the umbilical cord was better than the knots most doctors tied. Swiftly, Crane took the child, but Quinzel let him and protested only with a shiver from the cold running over her naked body.

With the baby in his arms he examined the knot after pulling away the fabric that the child was swathed in. He held it up, away from mom's gaze, and made a face. "Hrmmm," he said, lying again, "let me just take a look at this…."

Quickly, Crane walked the child back to the jar. He smiled, laughed, and shook his head. She was so weak, so emotionally weak, so physically weak, so terribly, terribly, mentally weak. He turned on the water at the sink next to him to cover the sounds.

He was ready, but a pause overcame him. He paused to remember the things he'd told himself. He paused to grow angry enough to do it. He paused to remember all of the hatred he had for that clown. It was animalistic of him, but Crane was doing what any other male would do. He was killing what didn't belong to him. He was killing it because he didn't need any more bastard clowns running around. He did it because he fucking wanted to, and because he wanted to scar her emotionally for the rest of her life.

She'd never liked him, never loved him, had never cared, and he was going to show her that he never cared about her either. He was going to show her just what he thought of the joker and his idiotic ways.

Roughly, he unwrapped the child and dipped it in the jar. The boy started gurgling, and feigned crying.

Crane peered at it one last time, realizing that the next time he examined it, it would be dead. Quickly he pushed the baby further into the jar. It squirmed in the cold liquid and started to whine. Crane shook his head, dumping more formaldehyde on it before capping the jar tightly.

He watched, eyes alight, as the baby moved and squirmed. It opened its mouth, trying to call out for help, but simply swallowed formaldehyde in the process.

Crane grinned to himself, feeling an accomplishment settle over him.

The child grew still for a few moments and Crane looked at his watch. He noticed the time for the first time since he'd come down to the morgue. It was late, and he was tired, but he supposed it was all in a day's work.

He was still looking at his wrist when movement caught his eye. Looking back to the jar he took notice of the child. It was seizing in the liquid. All bodies did it. They always let out a sick little flutter, like a dance upon true death. It was like their bodies didn't know what to do with themselves after the brain was gone.

The fluttering continued for a few seconds before stillness overtook the jar.

Crane's job was done.

Quinzel was growing obviously restless, and strained to see what was going on behind her. It was useless and she called out to Crane. "Jonathan," she said politely, nervously, "is everything okay?"

Crane's mind reconnected with his body, and he picked up the jar, holding it in his arms. It was heavy with the quantity of liquid and child within it.

"Yes," he lied, "Everything is fine…."

Slowly, Crane made his way around the table. When he reached the foot of it he sat the jar down, catching Quinzel's attention.

She screamed louder than she ever had before. Her voice almost gave out as she looked at it.

Her baby, her own son, was hovering in a jar full of clear poison. Crane had killed him. Crane. Crane had done it.

"W-why…whhhhyyyy….?" Quinzel's voice was loud and yet had a deadly silence to it at the same time. "Why would you do that! CRANE. CRANE!"

Crane left the jar and walked away from her.

Written on the jar was the word 'scarecrow'.

"CRANE!" Quinzel's voice was loud, booming.

Crane washed his hands in the sink.

"JONATHAN. FUCKING LOOK ME IN THE EYE. Look me in the eye and tell my why! Please.…!" Quinzel's tears were loud and annoying to Crane. He ignored her and dried his hands.

Finally when he was ready to leave, Crane went to collect the jar from the table.

Quinzel stared at him as he went and spit on him. "FUCK YOU."

"I'd suggest you abstain from overexerting yourself or sexual activities until your scar heals." Crane's voice was flat. Carefully, he fitted his arms around the jar and picked it up.

Quinzel spat at him again and kicked her legs in his direction. One of her feet caught Crane in the face, and he fell back from it. His head spun momentarily and his balance was lost. The freshly bottled fetus slipped from his hands and collided with the floor.

Liquid poured out through the broken shards of glass as the jar ruptured and exploded onto the floor tiles.

Feeling his nose start to bleed, Crane left. He had no reason to stay, and knew that any amount of cleaning wouldn't be worth staying in the room.

The doctor fled. As he went he heard the sobs of Quinzel echoing loudly behind him. "YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"

* * *

><p>As it ended up, Quinzel broke Crane's nose with her foot, and caused him a black eye.<p>

They, the medical examiners found Quinzel the next day when they were called in to perform an autopsy of a patient who had died in the night. They found her naked and extremely dehydrated, still handcuffed to the examination table. She wouldn't speak to them, but repeated one name over and over again. "Jonathan."

Crane didn't have anywhere to go and hid in his office.

The authorities who were called to the asylum after Quinzel and her child were found, found Crane sitting at his desk, nose buried in a book, covered in blood. In their reports they wrote "The doctor was seemingly mentally unhinged upon being found, and told authorities that 'Quinzel got what she deserved' and that he hoped to be housed in a cell next to 'the clown'."

The police took Crane into custody and had another doctor, one that had worked with Crane for his entire career, fill out a psychological evaluation on him.

It was found that he was sane, but confused.

He was admitted to the hospital for 'recuperation' and placed as far from the Joker's cell as possible. Although he was assigned a therapist, he refused to talk, and would merely say that he'd 'seen the light'.

His stay would be indefinite or until progress was made.

Quinzel was given time off and a large monetary compensation from the Asylum to keep her mouth shut about the events and not speak to the press. She was debriefed by the police, who took down the entire story.

The staff feared Crane after the events and distrusted anyone who had known him well.

Eventually, Harleen Quinzel continued her work, but remained only with specific patients. Despite the accident, the board cleared her access to Crane and to her previous patient, commonly known as the Joker.

Crane sat in his cell, mulling things over in his mind. He'd been caught, obviously, though the experience hadn't been awful at all.

He realized in his incarceration that before he hadn't had much time to think. Now he could think whenever he wanted to. He though nearly endlessly and found that it was quite liberating. His body was stuck in a metal box, but his mind was free and unconfined.

He had become someone else entirely. He was still Crane, but there was someone else there too, someone who fed on fear and lifted his courage to what it could have never been before.

In his thoughts he had realized he had some ideas. The ideas were terrible, but they were exciting and entrancing. He didn't care about ethics anyway, and knew that he would go where ever these ideas wanted to take him, or where ever this new part of himself would take him.

Naturally, he was planning an escape. It would be an escape that would lead him to Quinzel, and to the other hobbies that he'd been developing. He wanted to thank Quinzel for helping him to realize what was coming. He wanted to thank her for what she had helped his mind to create. He wanted to thank her for instilling within him a natural need to want to frighten and scare her.

She would be his first victim, and he wanted to thank her for Scarecrow.


End file.
